


Cellmates

by Chemicallywrit



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Gen, anyway i'm hardly the first person to have this idea, as far as we know, but it's a fun one to explore, i mean kinda, now let's see how silly this fic gets in light of season 2, runaan did kill the king, the only ship in this fic is strawberry boy/common sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-18 19:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16125473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemicallywrit/pseuds/Chemicallywrit
Summary: It is possible to learn from your enemies, provided you are both chained up in different rooms without seeing each other and are only allowed to argue.





	1. Concerned

They jumped him, Gren thought, sighing. He’d been lost in calculation, in preparations to be made and soldiers to be chosen, in what he’d say to High Mage Viren to change his mind. Viren was a reasonable man— _notoriously_ practical, in fact—and Gren thought an appeal to his reason might do the trick. And then Soren and three others had jumped him and dragged him downstairs and locked him in shackles.

Gren sighed again, his chains jingling a little. The general had said something about this, what was it... _If you have the ears, it’s foolish not to use them._ That was a paraphrase, of course, a translation, but that was how he always read her words, filling in the articles and conjugation automatically. He remembered the smile on her face when she’d said it, wrinkling her scar a little.

Above him, on the staircase, he heard footsteps…

 

“Thank you. Your feedback is a gift.” Viren saluted, hand over heart, politely. Gren smiled, for just a moment. He was getting through to—

“Father?” Viren’s daughter appeared in the black doorway across from Gren’s spot on the wall. Claudia looked worried. “It’s about our other prisoner.”

Viren turned and followed Claudia into the doorway, closing the heavy door behind him.

Okay, okay. This was good. Viren was here and ready to listen, and Gren was certain he could convince him to see sense. Amaya had said not to trust him, sure, but that was about the throne, and Gren wasn’t a threat to him there, he just wanted to do his job, so clearly—

Viren reappeared in the doorway and meandered back up the stairs, lost in thought, with Claudia following close behind. Gren frowned. “Sir?”

Viren didn’t even spare him a glance.

“Sir, about my concerns,” he called up the stairs.

Viren and Claudia’s footsteps continued to fade.

“General Amaya will not be pleased about this breach of agreement!” he shouted, preparing to launch into his argument.

“Pff.”

The tiny sound stopped his tirade. “Hello?”

Silence.

Gren suddenly felt self-conscious. He had forgotten, but of course there was the other prisoner. He saw now that either Viren or Claudia—no, Claudia, it was obviously Claudia—had left the door ajar. “Who’s there?”

“So polite to a man who took your freedom.”

Gren frowned. That accent… “You’re...you’re an elf.”

The elf scoffed.

“You obviously do not recognize respect when you see it, monster,” said Gren.

“Then you respect your captor? How utterly human.”

The scorn in the elf’s voice curled Gren’s lip. He couldn’t think of a comeback. He probably would in an hour or two, and it would drive him crazy, because you couldn’t say a comeback two hours after the fact. What would the general do?

_Fight only for your pride, and you’ve already lost._

Yeah, he had nothing to prove to this elf in the king’s dungeon.

Why was there an elf in the king’s dungeon?

As soon as it was asked, the answer appeared to him: this was one of the assassins. He hadn’t had time to collect the details of the king’s death, overheard or otherwise, as the general had been busy trying to rescue her nephews, and he had been busy as her voice. One of the filthy creatures must have survived. It was not the custom of the king to keep prisoners, but then again, the king was dead.

Gren’s jaw tightened. “If my hands weren’t chained to this wall, I’d show you exactly what I think of animals like you.”

“Animals like me.” The elf sounded almost bored. “And yet, the same man locked us both up. What does that say about animals like you?”

Gren scowled, and opted to emulate Amaya by saying nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading! This story feels like it'll be nine-ish chapters long, all pretty short like this one, and I'll be posting on Fridays, Sundays, and Tuesdays. I'd love to hear what you think. <3


	2. Stupid

Gren started awake, already miffed at himself for falling asleep on his feet again. The general wouldn’t be angry, but she’d be pointedly amused and that was almost worse—why were his arms above his head—

His wrists jerked against the chains. 

Oh. Right. He was in a dungeon.

Someone was coming down the stairs. He straightened, aiming for “dignified.”

A guard appeared, holding a plate with some bread and a raw carrot, a cup balancing on the edge. She was palace guard, not someone he recognized. She rested the plate on a step, dug a set of keys from her pocket, and reached toward one of his shackles.

“They’re setting me free?” asked Gren.

The guard paused and looked him in the eye. Seeing if he was serious. Gren’s heart sank.

“No,” she said simply, and unlocked the shackle. Gren’s arm dropped to his side; he breathed a sigh of relief as life flooded back into it, rotating his wrist slowly. The guard held out the plate. “Eat.”

Gren did, a little reluctantly, taking a bite of the carrot and chewing for a moment. “What’s your name?”

The guard looked surprised. “Uh...Terris.”

“Thank you, Terris,” said Gren solemnly, and took another bite. 

Terris looked a bit uncomfortable. Gren supposed he’d be uncomfortable too, holding a plate up to a prisoner so he could eat with one hand. He finished off the carrot and took a swig of the water. “You know, this food isn’t half bad.”

Terris raised an eyebrow.

“Ever eat field rations, Terris?”

She hesitated, and then nodded, ever so slightly.

“Ever eat them for seven weeks?”

This managed to extort a small smile and the ghost of a chuckle. 

Gren grinned and took the bread. “So, has Lord Viren mentioned when he was coming back to finish our discussion?”

Terris chuckled again.

Gren frowned. He pointed the bread at her. “I’m serious, you know.”

Her smile fell, replaced by a perplexed frown.

“We were interrupted. A general timeframe would suffice.”

“You really mean it,” said Terris, voice soft with disbelief.

“Of course.”

Terris cleared her throat. “Look, Gren—”

“Commander Gren,” he reminded her gently, in case she didn’t know.

“Commander. I doubt that Lord Viren will be back down here anytime soon.”

Gren frowned. “But—”

“I’m sorry,” Terris said. “Are you finished?”

He wasn’t, but he tried to hurry, for her sake. As soon as he’d taken his last mouthful of bread, she grabbed hold of his arm and reshackled it.

“Maybe I could give you a message to pass along?” said Gren, as soon as he’d swallowed.

“I’m afraid not, Commander,” Terris said, gathering the dishes and hurrying up the stairs.

“Right,” he said to her retreating form, feeling rather like a rug had been pulled out from under him. “Very good, then.”

A nasty little snicker echoed out of the dark doorway.

Gren glowered at the dark. “What do you find so funny about this?”

“Are you that stupid?” said the elf. “I truly can’t tell.”

“I’m not stupid,” Gren muttered, feeling stupid just by saying it.

“Then you are naive. I’m surprised you had to be locked up. You’d likely punish yourself if he asked you.”

“What do you know about any of this?” snapped Gren. “Lord Viren is a reasonable man—”

“And you are a foolish one, to trust the one who took your freedom.”

“I don’t trust him!” Amaya had said not to, had said to watch out, that be it this month or this year Viren would move on the throne—

“Don’t you?”

Gren stopped, glowering at the floor. But—

But wait.

Gren had trusted Viren to—to be reasonable—to act honorably, to fulfill his obligations—that wasn’t what she _meant_ , though, was it?

...was it?

Damn, the elf was right. And—and what was worse, he had just thought the sentence “the elf is right!”

He sagged, letting his wrists take his weight for a moment. A deep pit had opened in his stomach. He’d failed. He’d failed _her_.

Gren hung from his chains, despairing, while the shackles cut lines into his wrists.


	3. Cold

Gren woke up, neck stiff, and eked out a groan. Something had woken him, some sound or another. Gradually the knowledge of where he was floated back into his brain, along with the crushing, shameful emptiness of his failure.

Great.

He sighed, and switched feet, leaning the one up against the wall. It was night. Probably, anyway, it felt like night, colder and danker than usual, but there were no windows, so who knew?

Gren flexed his hands. The tips of his fingers were a little numb, down to blood flow and cold, probably.

What was it that had woken him? He could doze off just about anywhere, but he was a light sleeper too. Amaya had once called it his greatest attribute as a soldier. Jokingly, he had hoped.

He tried to dig back into that dream-state, remember what had woken him. It was something...it was something from the black doorway.

“Elf?” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep.

The elf did not answer.

Gren sighed. Probably nothing.

A thought occurred to him. He let his breathing slow, relaxed again into the position he’d been sleeping in. In and out, nice and quiet.

_Moonshadow elves are the worst kind,_ Amaya had said. _They can hear everything, see everything. Darkness doesn’t bother them, and they can disappear in full moonlight._

“Surely they can’t hear _everything,_ ” Gren had said.

_Everything,_ Amaya had repeated, dead serious.

So maybe he could make the elf think he was asleep.

In...out…

In...out…

...Gren almost _was_ asleep when he heard it. It was a small noise, but definitely loud enough to wake him.

The elf shuddered, just a little, teeth chattering. He stopped in a second, but...it sounded just awful. Gren had his clothing, his armor, his good sturdy military-issue boots. The elf must not be so proof against the cold.

Gren kept up the breathing charade until finally, he fell back into uneasy slumber.


	4. Bored

Gren glared cross-eyed at the strand of orange hair that had fallen into his eyes. He attempted to blow it out of the way again, even though that had not worked the last dozen times. No dice.

Maybe if he stood up on his tiptoes and craned his neck and reeeeached his hand out a little further, he could juuuust touch the hair hanging in his eyes—

Nope. Ugh. He dropped back to his feet and sighed. Trying not to think about the fact that he was a failure could make almost anything entertaining, but this was getting tiresome and annoying. He probably should have trimmed his hair before they left the border, but no, he’d been in too much of a hurry. And for what? Now he was locked in a dungeon along with one of the elves who’d killed the king because he’d been stupid enough to—

And there he went, thinking about it all again. He needed a distraction.

“Hey, elf.”

Nothing but silence from the other prisoner.

“Hey elf! Are you awake?” 

Still nothing.

“Are you dead?”

A scornful little noise echoed from the doorway.

“Very good.” This is how you knew you were desperate, Gren thought. Trying to make conversation with an elf. “What’s your name?”

“What?” The elf sounded baffled.

“Your name,” said Gren. “You’ve got one, right?”

A reluctant silence was the only response. Gren waited.

“...Names are for the living.”

Oh, yes, Gren remembered this. They’d captured an elf at the border once, about Gren’s age with short hair, and tried to get information out of her about her movements and why she was sneaking through. No matter what they asked her, she insisted over and over that she was already dead.

“Then...when you weren’t dead, what did they call you?” asked Gren.

“Why does it matter to you?” spat the elf.

Gren huffed. “Humor me. I’m bored.”

“A rather undisciplined soldier you must be, if you are bored,” the elf scoffed.

“On the contrary, I am excellent at being bored,” said Gren, smiling at himself a little. “It’s just that at the moment…” His smile slipped. “At the moment I’m not much of a soldier.”

The elf did not answer. Gren did not notice, as the dejection crept over his mind again.

If only he’d just used his head. Just one time. If only he hadn’t...waited for permission? No, that wasn’t acceptable. He couldn’t just go rogue, there was protocol to consider.

Then again, if Viren wasn’t playing by protocol, should he? Shouldn’t he have taken the higher ground? He shouldn’t have trusted Viren, he shouldn’t have—

“Runaan.”

Gren looked up. “Hm?”

“My name.”

The smile crept back onto his face. “I’m Gren.”

“I’m aware.”

“Oh?” Now that was interesting—although the guard _had_ said his name—

“The voice of the savage general.”

“The sav—General Amaya is _not_ a savage!”

“Try being on the other end of her shield.”

Sputtering, Gren found he had no response. How _dare_ this creature that drank blood and killed kings call _his general—_

“All righteous fury now, are we?” sneered Runaan. “At least you’re not bored.”

The mocking tone silenced Gren, set him glowering at the floor for a few minutes.

A thought occurred. “Then you’ve fought her before.”

There was a fairly long pause before Runaan said, “No.”

Gren felt disappointed, without being sure why…Oh, good grief, he’d been hoping they had acquaintances in common. He was just _hopeless_ , wasn’t he?

“Not many fight her and live,” Runaan said, his tone dark.

That much was true. That elf with the short hair—when she proved she would yield no intelligence, they’d killed her without mercy.

Well it _was_ war.

Something about the familiar saying felt off. It was _true,_ Gren knew it to be true. Even so, today it settled like a stone in his stomach.


	5. Curious

“May I ask you a question?”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?” mumbled Runaan, shifting a little, wincing at the ribbon that was slowly tightening around his bicep.

The ridiculous human ignored this comment. “Whose blood do you drink if you can’t get a human’s? Do you go for an animal or...or surely you don’t drink each other’s.”

“Ugh,” said Runaan, rolling his eyes.

“Is there a difference in flavors?” the human wondered.

“Who told you we drink blood, exactly?” Runaan said icily.

Gren paused for a moment. “I’m not sure where I heard it first. But everyone knows it.”

Runaan shook his head. “Human propaganda.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes.”

Another brief pause. “Not even a little?”

“No more than you do,” said Runaan, silently thankful for this conversation. The thought of trying to drink blood was momentarily quieting the angry, clawing hunger in his gut. “I presume, anyway. For all your dark magic and barbarism, I hope at the very least you do not drink blood.”

“All well and good for you to call us barbarians. You’re an assassin.”

“I follow my orders, just as you do.” 

“Under cover of darkness, without honor.”

Runaan smirked. “You call it a lack of honor because it’s tactically superior.”

“Yeah, you’ll need superior tactics when you can’t fight someone head-on.”

“And which one of us was successful in our mission?” he said dryly.

The human fell silent. Ah, well, that was a low blow, but it was _true_ , he told the twinge of guilt that fluttered through his mind. What did he care about sparing a human’s feelings anyway?

A human who was still young, especially to be the confidante of a major general and the commander of an important mission of some kind—

For the _enemy_ , a mission for the enemy, dragon’s claws, get ahold of yourself. Hunger and cold and pain were getting to him.

“You’re so...glib. About the death of the King.”

The human’s tone was dark. Runaan loosed a belabored sigh. The lack of self-awareness was astounding. “Not so. I treat every mission with the utmost reverence.”

“How can you just...kill someone like that?” 

“Have you never killed anyone, soldier?”

“I have, but...but it’s different—”

“How, exactly?” Runaan pronounced, letting the words slide into place like the beads of an abacus.

“He was our king!”

“You killed the dragon king in the same way,” said Runaan, feeling that familiar well of anger, drawing the feeling up into his chest. “And what’s more, you killed his egg. Why should we show mercy?”

“So what, you’d—you’d kill Prince Ezran as well, no question, if it was asked of you?”

Runaan glanced at the ribbon on his arm. “Life for life. That’s justice, a price fairly paid.”

“He’s a child!”

“So is the egg!” Runaan snapped. The sentence echoed down the short hall, through the gray doorway. “But you don’t have the sense to imagine any life as sacred unless it looks like your own, do you, barbarian?”

The human was quiet, as the echoes of the outburst faded. Sure, that the egg was dead was not strictly true, but just because it had been kidnapped and not killed did not change the principle of the thing.

When Gren spoke again, his voice shook. Anger, that’s what this was. Not righteous indignation, not offense, proper anger. Interesting.

“I would _never_ ,” he said, “hurt a child. Dragon or human. _Never_.”

“Then you do not yet understand the price of war,” said Runaan, his own anger melting away into weariness.

Gren said nothing, leaving the space mercifully quiet for a moment or two.

“...Is?”

Runaan frowned. “What?”

“You said...you said ‘is.’ You said the egg is, not was.”

Oops. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“I’m sure I’m not, words are my stock in trade. What do you mean, is?”

“You’re _mistaken_ , human.” And even if he wasn’t, there was no profit in telling a random soldier of Kotalis that the egg was still alive, and that it had been kidnapped again by the princes and probably Rayla, silly idealistic girl. She’d lose a hand for her treachery, and that would have to be punishment enough.

“I know I’m right,” the human mumbled, before falling silent once again.


	6. Hopeful

Runaan woke from dozing as a sharp pain shot up his arm—he began to cry out, but stifled it, mostly—

No pain could harm him. Nothing could bother the dead. He tried to focus.

“Runaan?”

Curse the day he was born, why had he told the human his name? 

“Runaan, are you all right?”

He attempted to catch his breath. “So concerned for the comfort of an assassin who killed your king.” Focus. This pain was an illusion.

“You were just trying to do your job.”

Runaan frowned and looked up. The human’s tone was almost apologetic.

“That’s what got both of us into this mess,” he added ruefully.

The human was...trying to...make friends? All humans are liars, Runaan reminded himself, but no, Gren was...too stupid, probably, or too naive to lie.

Focus. Runaan kept breathing, until the pain was bearable.

“Are you hurt?” asked Gren.

“There is no pain beyond death,” Runaan said.

“Sounds like there was a little.”

Runaan didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by this comment.

“Did they wound you, when you were captured?”

A few injuries, lots of bruises, but that was nothing compared to the binding on his arm. Or for that matter, the shame of losing one of his horns. Not that they were anything more than decorative, but nevertheless his vanity chafed at the thought. “No.”

“Is it because you won’t eat?”

“No.” Runaan sincerely wished that whatever that awful dark mage had planned, he’d do it soon and get it over with before Runaan lost his arm. It was unfathomable to be crippled so.

Well. Not quite unfathomable, was it?

“Is it the blood flow, to your hands?” Gren prattled on. “Do they have you chained up like they do me?”

“Your general,” Runaan interrupted. “Is she deaf? Or only mute?”

The human stopped his nattering. “...She’s...deaf. Why do you ask?”

“Has she always been?” asked Runaan.

Gren paused for a moment, then said, “I think you’ll understand why I don’t want to give information about my general to an elf.”

That was fair. Although… “Then why did you tell me she was deaf?”

“I thought everyone knew that.”

“I didn’t. I could sneak up on her now, so long as I was silent.”

“I would _never_ let that happen.”

The vehemence of the statement surprised Runaan. “She must depend so much on others, being disabled as she is.” 

“Yes and no. General Amaya is much more capable than you might believe. You underestimate her at your own peril.”

That much he knew, actually, and was foolish to forget just because the general was deaf. “But nevertheless, she does depend on you.”

“The one-man army is a myth,” said Gren, and it sounded like he was quoting. “We all depend on each other. If I can be her voice, I count it a privilege.”

Another shooting pain angled for Runaan’s attention. Runaan ignored it. “I confess to finding her inspiring.”

“If you said that to her face, she would cut you down where you stood.”

Runaan frowned. “What for?”

“She doesn’t set out to inspire. She doesn’t set out to do anything, except her duty. If you’d like to call her a great general, then fine, she’s earned that, but...at the heart of things she’s a soldier. Not a...not an example to be put on a pedestal.”

Runaan considered this. Perhaps if pity was a terrible fate, then impersonal adoration was the other side of the coin. Both well-meaning but objectifying, alienating in different ways.

He glanced again at his arm. It was foolish to think of a potential future when he would allow himself to be alive again, but should something like that happen...it was good to know the loss of an arm would not be unlivable.

Not that he should hope for freedom. It would make the inevitable that much worse.

“Are you okay, then?”

“Do you mean besides being dead?” Runaan replied wryly.

The human laughed, he actually laughed. Against his better judgement, Runaan allowed himself a smile.


	7. Hurt

Not for the first time, Gren wished he could take off his armor. Maybe change his clothes. Sit down for like, ten minutes. He knew full well how sore you could be from staying in one position too long, but at this point he knew every contour of the soles of his boots. His clothes felt greasy on his skin. His arms had a fairly loose relationship with the concept of reality, when they didn’t feel puffy and stiff.

He should probably get used to it. He might be stuck here for...who knew how long? Years? There was a sobering idea. Whew. Certainly someone would find him before then, right? General Amaya had to come back eventually, right?

Maybe not, if he’d failed her so badly—

No, no, that was nonsense. He had messed up, of course, and General Amaya would no doubt be disappointed, but she would never be angry enough to leave him behind. 

Trust your general, he told himself.

Wow, it’d be really great to sit down for just a few minutes.

In the next room, Runaan hissed. Something was hurting him, but he refused to say what. Maybe they could both use a little distraction.

“Hey, Runaan.”

The elf heaved an exaggerated sigh. Gren smiled. He liked to think it was fondness.

“What non sequitur has graced your mind now, human?”

“If we get out of here, what’s the first thing you’d like to do?”

“What on earth makes you think we’ll be getting out of here alive?” Runaan said.

“Nothing, really.” Gren kicked the floor idly. “I just hope we do.”

“You hope I, your sworn enemy and murderer of your king, get out of here alive.”

As terrible as it was to admit, yes, Gren almost did. “We could at least get you into a more comfortable cell.”

“Ha!”

Gren couldn’t tell if that was genuine amusement or derision, but he decided to take it as a win. “I tell you what I’d do,” he said. “I’d eat about a dozen jelly tarts.”

“Really.”

“Maybe two dozen. Do they have jelly tarts in Xadia?” 

“Yes. Although I doubt we have the same kinds of jelly.”

“Yeah?”

“Different kinds of fruit.”

“Oh, fancy that.”

“Mm. That’s…”

Runaan trailed off. Gren waited until it was clear he didn’t plan to finish the sentence. “That’s what?”

“Jelly tarts? That’s what you’d do?” His tone had gained back its usual veneer of scorn.

Ah, right then. “A man’s allowed a joke, I hope.”

“How am I to tell?”

“Right, if you want a serious answer.” Gren thought about this, for a moment. Being released, finally having both arms at the same time. Clawing the hair out of his eyes once and for all, finally, no more itchy face from stray bangs. And then what?

“I’d beg my general’s forgiveness,” he muttered.

“Do you suppose she would grant it?”

Gren took a deep breath, in and out. It’s a question he’d been asking himself over and over.

“I think she’d forgive me,” said Gren slowly. “I don’t know that I’d ever gain back her trust, not properly.”

The thought hurt, more than the places on his wrists where the shackles hit, more than his feet, more than the muscles in his legs and back from his forced posture. He closed his eyes against the feeling.

“Too honest.”

Gren opened his eyes. “What?”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve. Like a target.”

Gren huffed. “You’d want to hide, wouldn’t you? Assassin.”

“You’d want to speak without shutting up, wouldn’t you, translator? And none of the ideas your own, to boot.”

This felt like the same argument as before. Gren didn’t want to hash it out again at the moment. “I suppose that means you’re not going to tell me what you’d do if you were set free.”

Runaan didn’t answer. Honestly, Gren hadn’t expected him to. This bit of conversation would sustain him for a while. It had helped to tell someone what he was worried about. Maybe Runaan was right, maybe he shouldn’t be so open, especially not with an elf, but hadn’t they been through enough together to merit a little vulnerability?

Then again, speaking of vulnerability, Runaan probably wouldn’t hesitate to stab Gren with the nearest sharp implement if he had the chance— 

“I would go home to my love.”

The sentence was so quiet, Gren was unsure he’d actually heard it. “What?”

“Pfeh.” The sound was dismissive.

Gren shook his head. “You...you have...what’s their name?”

“I will not be telling you that.”

Gren nodded. Fair. “Do they know…”

“He always knew this was a possibility.”

“Runaan, I’m so sorry.”

Runaan was quiet for a minute or two. Gren’s heart sank. It was so much more difficult to think of people as your enemies when you thought of them as...well, people.

“I wish…” Runaan paused.

Gren waited.

“I wish I could have said a better goodbye,” Runaan murmured.

And Gren’s heart broke for the elf in the cell next to his.

“I wish…”

Footsteps echoed down the staircase above Gren. He cleared his throat to stop Runaan talking as Viren’s shoes came into view. “Sir, I’m glad to see you, I’d like to discuss my further incarceration in this dungeon.”

Viren was carrying a tray, with a pitcher, a cup, and several pieces of fruit. He ignored Gren and headed straight into Runaan’s cell.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll die,” said Viren’s voice, echoing into Gren’s section of the dungeon. He sounded so reasonable, almost gentle.

His voice grated on Gren’s nerves.

 

“...I must come up with something you will fear more than death.” Viren’s tone slid from cordial into slimy. It curled Gren’s lip. How could he have been fooled by Viren’s politeness before?

He straightened as Viren passed by. “Excuse me! I would love to try some Xadian fruit.”

Viren didn’t even look at him.

Gren drooped again, trying to look dejected. “Very good.”

It was a few minutes later, long after Viren had gone, when Runaan said, “Really?”

Gren looked up. “Really what?”

“I would _love_ to try some Xadian fruit,” he said, mimicking Gren’s accent.

“Oh, well. You know.” He straightened, trying to take the weight off his arms. “I wanted an idea of what those Xadian jelly tarts taste like.”

“Why did you warn me he was coming?”

Gren frowned a little. Why _had_ he?

Because not even a murderer deserved to have their loved ones used against them for information, especially not by Viren. Because he’d started to gain Runaan’s trust, and at this point he didn’t want to lose a friend. Because the real enemy here was not chained up in the cell next to his.

He ended up saying, “We can’t have the high mage hearing you being wistful, can we?”

It wasn’t a good answer, but Runaan seemed to accept it. “I won’t forget that, human.”

Gren smiled.


	8. Afraid

Gren kept his head down, his posture lax, as Viren and the guard Terris made their way down the stairs. He could just see out of the corner of his eye that they were moving something bulky.

“Thank you,” said Viren mildly when they reached the bottom. “That will be all.”

“Yes sir,” Terris said, and disappeared back up the stairs.

Viren began sliding the object, slowly and laboriously, through the black doorway toward Runaan. Gren glanced up. It was covered in a black cloth, something large and broad. Like a painting on an easel, maybe. Gren almost offered a hand moving it before thinking the better of it, and dropping his head.

Gren listened to the object scrape across the stone floor for an excruciatingly long time before Viren’s voice said, “In a moment, I will remove this cover, and you will tell me what you know. Understood?”

Ah, so _that’s_ why Viren had kept Runaan alive. Although it seemed a waste; wouldn’t Runaan know more about troop movements and such than about some random object?

“I’ve brought something that I hope you will find motivating,” Viren said, and Gren heard the clink of coins.

Now _that_ was stupid, even Gren knew elves didn’t really get money.

“You’re more foolish than I thought,” said Runaan, in a tone Gren recognized as smug. “Don’t you know only humans can be bribed?”

“Oh this isn’t a bribe.” The coins clattered onto the stone floor. “It’s a threat. Go on, take a closer look.”

Gren frowned. What?

There was a pause, and then Runaan said, with genuine horror in his voice, “You’re a monster.”

“You’re mistaken. I’m a pragmatist.” Gren heard him picking up the coins. “Think on it, won’t you?”

Viren returned from the black doorway and left up the stairs.

“Runaan,” Gren called, after a few minutes.

No answer.

“Runaan? Are you—”

“Enough.”

Gren paused. “What was it he showed you?”

Runaan took his time answering. “I don’t think you know the depths of horror that true dark magic can plumb, human.”

Gren stood up a little straighter. “I’ve seen some things. Try me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice was flat.

“But—”

_“Enough.”_

Gren let the silence stretch on for a bit, until he couldn’t bear to let the thought sit on his mind any longer. “He’s going to torture you.”

“Yes.”

Gren shook his head. “I don’t think I can let him do that.”

“And what exactly will you do? Chained up in another room? Yell at him?”

“Something, I don’t know.”

“Fool.”

Gren conceded this point with a nod. Possibly the most foolish thing he’d ever said.

“Why does it matter to you?” asked Runaan.

“Is it enough that it matters?” Gren said weakly.

He didn’t answer.

“I know I can’t...help. But I can’t stand here and listen to him—”

“They chained you standing?” Runaan sounded almost amused.

Gren huffed. “This isn’t the time for that.”

“An elf’s allowed a joke, I hope.”

“Since when do you joke?” scoffed Gren.

“Pfeh.” His voice lacked the usual coating of scorn.

Gren loosed a slow breath. “Wow, things are...things are really bad, aren’t they?”

“And you’re just now catching on to that?”

“I meant for you.”

Runaan sighed.

“What should I do, then?” muttered Gren.

“Nothing.”

“I can’t—”

“Then hum until you can’t hear it. But let me have my honor in death.”

“I thought you were already dead,” snapped Gren.

“Then this is merely a formality.”

Gren squeezed his eyes shut. He was a soldier. He’d killed people. But torture...it wasn’t the policy of the army. Sure, occasionally you had to threaten to cut off someone’s fingers, but it wasn’t as though such threats were often carried out. It wasn’t as if Gren had even made such threats, except acting as Amaya’s voice once or twice. He had no stomach for this.

“Please, Gren.”

Gren looked up sharply.

“For your sake and mine. Do nothing.” 

Runaan had never used his name before. Or asked for anything.

“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Gren quietly.

“No.”

Gren believed him.


	9. Defiant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use the word "god" twice in this chapter. Are there gods in the cosmology of this world? Would humans swear by dragons? Who the heck knows.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for reading this little fic, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love you.

It wasn’t too long before Terris brought a table and a candle down to Runaan’s cell and set them up without a sideways glance toward Gren. 

Gren had spent the last few hours chattering intermittently to Runaan about inane things. The weather, the difference in childhood games in Katolis and Xadia, if he ever did any magic himself and if so, what did it feel like? Runaan had withstood this with characteristic dryness, but did not protest. Gren thought he must appreciate the distraction. 

Now, though, it seemed Runaan’s time had run out.

“Terris,” he blurted as she passed.

She paused. “Commander?”

Gren opened his mouth, and then closed it again. What was he even going to say? “Do you know what the high mage is going to do to him?”

Terris glanced up the stairs, and then back over her shoulder. “I...I shouldn’t like to speculate.” And she hurried away.

Gren sagged. He’d already made up his mind not to try and help Runaan. For one thing, Runaan was right, there really was nothing he could do, and for another, letting Viren know that Gren now considered him an enemy would not be to Gren’s advantage. He didn’t know why he was being kept alive—if Gren was in Viren’s place, he’d have killed anyone in the way of his quest for the throne, not locked him up—but he knew that Viren would notice if he suddenly started acting like Runaan instead of pretending nothing had changed.

In truth, not a lot _had_ changed. Except Gren’s mind, about a few things.

Maybe he’d be lucky, maybe he’d come out with some information on Viren that he could pass along to Amaya. Hopefully she’d find some other way to locate the princes, since Viren didn’t seem all that interested in them so long as they were elsewhere.

He couldn’t help but wonder who would take the throne, if the princes were killed by that elf who’d captured them. Amaya? Or perhaps Viren would get his way? And then would Amaya’s loyalty to the throne be overruled by her common sense?

Gren sighed and straightened up. The world was so much more complicated than he’d thought, just a few days ago. Why, as an example, he’d often mulled over the possibility of facing torture, and how he was determined never to break, but he’d never considered that listening to someone else’s torture might be just as hard.

It wasn’t long enough before Viren made his way down the stairs, carrying a bowl into the black doorway. “Enough brooding, elf,” he said, after disappearing into the dark. “My patience wears thin.”

Gren swallowed. It was time. 

Just...think about something else. Anything else. Really, what was the worst that could happen? Yes, Runaan could die, and yes, that would be awful, but Runaan was well prepared for that. Or...Runaan could be horribly tortured, for hours. But at least he’d be alive?

_Literally_ anything else.

“I will never help you,” Runaan snarled.

Gren breathed, in and out, clearing his mind. He leaned back his head and started whistling, letting all his thoughts float away. Don’t listen. Think of Amaya, of freedom, of once again using his hands to do the work he felt he was meant to do. Think of jelly tarts and traveling and the possibility of a bath. Don’t listen to the chanting coming from the black doorway...don’t listen to the distressed noises Runaan was starting to make...don’t make note of the flashing purple light seeping out of the doorway—

What the—

Gren gave up not listening and tried to lean to one side, get an idea of what was happening in there. Runaan started to scream—god, the _agony_ —what could Viren possibly be doing to him?

And then the screaming stopped abruptly.

Gren squinted into the darkness. Was he dead? All that magic just to kill someone? A sword would have done the job just as well— 

His breath caught in his throat. Two glowing points of purple light appeared in the darkness, like the eyes of a monster…

They were Viren’s eyes, and the light in Gren’s cell revealed that his skin had gone sickly gray and strangely streaked. He held up a coin, casually, and stopped, finally deigning to give Gren a glance.

Gren felt frozen, befuddled. Horrified. 

“I always seem to capture the same expression,” Viren said, considering the coin in his hand. “Defiance, giving way to absolute fear.”

Gren felt his own face mirroring that progression. The coin...Runaan had been…no, no that wasn’t real, Viren couldn’t be that evil—

Even if Gren _had_ decided to do something, he wouldn’t have been able to now, paralyzed as he was. Runaan wasn’t dead, he was worse than dead, oh god...and Viren was so much more depraved than Gren had ever imagined.

The terror that bubbled up from Gren’s gut was nearly overwhelming…

“Now then.” Viren slipped the coin into a pocket and considered Gren. “What am I going to do with you?”

Nearly. Gren closed his mouth, set his jaw, and made a decision.

“You could let me free, sir, to find the princes,” Gren said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking.

Viren was momentarily surprised. He rolled his eyes and disappeared up the stairs.

Gren let go a trembling breath, sagging against his chains. If he ever got out of here, Viren was going to pay.


End file.
